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“It’s freezing in here, did the pilot light go—”
“Mia.”
She turned and froze.
In the shadows, like a ghost, stood Jack.
Her heart lurched, clogging her throat, and for a second she couldn’t breathe. Jack. Here. Shock emptied her head of any thought, any emotion.
But then the heavy load she floundered under lifted for a moment and she wanted to sag against the counter, relief making her dizzy.
He was here. When she needed him most.
“What…” She swallowed. “What are you doing here?”
He frowned at her. “Hiding out,” he said, his voice a harsh rasp. Painful sounding.
“What’s wrong with your voice?”
He blinked at her. “You…don’t know?”
The bubble of her relief popped and she truly saw him. He was so pale and thin. Too thin. His jacket hung on him. His eyes, his beautiful chocolate eyes, were dim.
His hand was in a cast and a sling, his fingers limp against the blue cloth.
“What happened, Jack?” she asked, unable to keep the panic out of her voice. She crossed the kitchen in a heartbeat and reached for those pale, still fingers, but he shifted away and her hand hung in the air, useless.
“Attacked,” he said.
She staggered back, her hand banging against the chair before she got a grip on it.
Attacked. Bile churned through her empty stomach.
Her eyes, like hands, searched him for more injuries. Obviously, there was something wrong with his throat, his arm. Was he holding his weight funny?
“Your leg?” she asked.
“Knee.” He watched her. “You didn’t know?”
“No,” she whispered, looking at him. “Oh my God, Jack, I didn’t know.” She reached out again and she ignored his flinch, pressed forward when he shifted back. Her fingers landed against his cool cheek, and his eyes, so cold and distant they could have been a stranger’s, didn’t leave hers.
That night in Santa Barbara blazed between them, a fire that separated them.
He was still angry.
“Jack—”
”Can I stay for a few days?” he asked.
“Of course,” she said. “Of course. It’s your home.”
His smile was bitter. Sharp.
A heavy thump echoed through the house and Mia dropped her hand. Another thump and a slide.
“Mia?” Walter called from the other room, and Jack stepped away from Mia, something flickering in his dead eyes. Anger. Of course.
“In here, Walter,” she called, and Mia could see the panic on Jack’s face.
He’s your father, she wanted to say. And he’s changed. That man you hated isn’t here anymore.
But she didn’t say anything. He would see soon enough.
An old man, so frail and thin, so utterly diminished that he seemed nearly childlike, pushed a walker into the kitchen.
“Holy shit,” Jack breathed, pushing away to face the far window. Tension so thick it was like acrid smoke rolled off him, choking the air out of the room.
“What the hell is going on?” Walter asked through lips that didn’t move, in a face that didn’t move. The facial paralysis was part of his Parkinson’s disease. As was the tremble in his arms and hands. The shuffling gait. All part of a disease that was ravaging his body.
But the smell of booze was his own damn fault.
“Walter—” she said.
“The pilot light must have gone out on the furnace,” the sixty-four-year-old man said. “You need to go down and look at it.”
Mia bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.
“Who the hell is this?” Walter asked, turning to look at Jack’s back. “We can’t hire hands that are injured.”
“He’s not a hand, Walter,” she said, watching Jack stare out the window, his face harder than the granite behind the house.
Finally he turned, eyes blazing, to face his father.
“Jack,” Walter breathed. He pitched, unsteady on his feet, and Mia leaned forward to keep him upright. She could feel him shaking so hard it was a wonder he could stand. Tears burned in her eyes for both these men and the pride that kept them so far apart.
“Son—”
Jack flinched at the word.
“You’re back,” Walter said, his words mumbled and thick. Hard to understand. “Your arm?”
Mia could feel Walter shift, his hand lifting as if to touch Jack, and she wanted to stop him. Protect him. Because Jack was a landmine of hate and anger, and there was no telling what pressure would set him off.
Jack stepped back, away from Walter and Mia. His eyes were empty, a foreign wasteland.
Without saying anything, he turned toward the hall leading back to the bedrooms.
“Jack,” she cried.
But he was gone. Disappearing into the cool, inky dark of the home he hated.
5
First things first. Mia lit the pilot light, and the old furnace rumbled and thumped back to life. And then, because it was eat something or pass out, she grabbed a bowl of chili and went into the den where the computer sat on her desk.
Walter was already there, sitting in the threadbare easy chair by the window.
“Find out what happened,” he demanded, pointing a shaking finger toward the computer like it was a pet he couldn’t figure out.
